


To Yield or Be Devoured

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Barricade Sex, Bondage, Desperation, Dubious Consent, First Time, Gangbang, M/M, Martingale, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Self-Sacrificing Valjean, Sex Pollen, Valjean's come-slick thighs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The National Guard uses sex pollen-laced wine to drug the insurgents at the barricade. Jean Valjean cannot escape it when Javert is still their prisoner.</p>
<p>
  <i>No further questions were asked. It happened like in a dream – a nightmare, Valjean thought to himself, but it was not terror that made his body shake. He allowed himself to be undressed, trembling as he had not trembled since that one day so long ago when they had riveted the iron collar behind his head and stripped all humanity from him. Now, once more he was stripped, although the hands were gentle and nearly reverent, shaking with the unholy desire the drink had brought about.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Yield or Be Devoured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fightingthecage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingthecage/gifts).



> I'm very sorry that this took so long - I feel like this has been a year in coming. But regardless, now my part of the deal is fulfilled, and barricade sex pollen is now a thing that exists. \o/

It had started out as a strange restlessness that slowly had crept over him, there in the shadow of the barricade. Valjean could not sit still. His fingers were tingling, and he ran them over his musket, then over his legs, then shifted. His limbs were strangely heavy and warm. 

It was nerves, he thought. They were under siege. It was likely he would not leave this small street again. Was it any wonder that now at last his body had decided to protest, that his heart dared to stage a revolt, an uprising of emotion within him that grew more difficult to ignore as time passed and the day progressed?

He could not say when the moment came that he realized something was wrong. It was not when he entered the tap-room and found the insurgents staring at each other, quiet and wide-eyed and unsettled. In truth, he had known long before his gaze came to rest on where Javert was trussed to a table, the rope cruelly tight between his legs, displaying that despite the shameful way that he was bound, he was aroused, his trousers stretching from the length that had hardened beneath the fabric.

It hit him fully when he met Javert's eyes, and the shock of recognition between them bloomed into something different, so that he could watch as Javert's prick pushed forcefully against the constraints of his trousers. Javert made a pained, humiliated sound. There was something in Javert's eyes that was almost fear - and it was that which made Valjean avert his eyes, because he could not, he thought, even as a wave of heat rushed through his own body. He would not. Not that.

He would never be beast again, even if that had to be how Javert still thought of him.

"They poisoned us, Enjolras!" one of the insurgents cried out. Valjean slowly made his way towards them, reluctant, for there was a strange urgency pulsing beneath his skin that made him look with trepidation at their flushed limbs and the way they kept carefully apart.

"Not poison," their leader said, and one, a man who seemed to have been asleep in a corner, suddenly sat up and raised the bottle before him, so that they could see the remnants of wine swirling inside.

"That man you shot."

Enjolras gave the other a stern look. "What about him? Do you hold him responsible, Grantaire?"

Grantaire placed the bottle back down. "He was in here for a good while. He did not get to my bottle. But the drink we shared earlier--"

"You say he was a spy?" Enjolras frowned, and after a moment, he nodded. 

Valjean watched how the sunlight that fell in through a window gleamed on his blond locks, then exhaled softly in shock and averted his head, ashamed. It had been a long time since he had felt such needs. Once, when he had been a boy - Valjean thought he must certainly have looked at others with desire, but the truth was that he could not remember anymore. 

"And you? Are you also a spy?"

Valjean straightened when he felt the full weight of their eyes come to rest on him. "I am... No."

Enjolras' eyes traveled down his chest. Valjean could feel where they lingered, his shame increasing by the way his own body betrayed him.

"No, I can see you drank what we did." Enjolras' eyes were strangely cool, despite the flush that heated his cheeks. "Unless that was part of the plan as well?"

Valjean did not know what to say to that. At last, awkwardly, he shook his head. "I do not know of any plan."

“Let us end this!” one of the men cried, and something within Valjean shivered at the fevered desperation of his plea. “Enjolras! We have not much time before they will attack!”

Enjolras looked around. Even before his expression grew grim, Valjean knew where his eyes had settled.

Javert. The spy, currently bound and helpless; that infuriating man who now turned his head and laughed hoarsely.

“You knew,” Enjolras said, his voice calm and smooth, so that Valjean thought of a sharpened bayonet. 

Javert laughed again, a soft, disdainful little sound cut short when one of the insurgents near him stepped forward and cuffed his head.

“Bossuet. Let the man be,” Enjolras said, and Valjean could not tear his eyes away from Javert now, the heart in his chest contracting with painful convulsions, pumping blood through his limbs in a wave of scalding heat. 

Javert did not look at him. Javert gazed at the ceiling, but there, between his legs, where the rope so cruelly bit, he was hard. Valjean's heart clenched again as he stared at that indecent bulge, something twisting darkly in his stomach as all of a sudden, his mind was filled by visions of what might lie beneath that fabric.

The cut of his trousers could not hide the generous girth. Valjean licked his dry lips, wondering for a moment whether there would be hair on Javert's thighs, whether there would be a line of dark, coarse curls leading down to where the man's prick was now straining--

Shocked, he tore his eyes away, his heart thumping painfully in his chest as he became aware of just what a vision he had contemplated.

Madness! This was madness! Valjean mouthed a silent prayer, but his hand trembled as he raised it to his brow to wipe at the sweat – and then he became aware of how silent the room had fallen.

When he dared to face Javert again, he saw that the insurgents now faced him as well, all of them flushed and breathless, and Javert wearing a prideful grin.

What madness this was – and yet, what could be done? Valjean looked at where a bruise marred Javert's face, and fought with rising horror against the thought of pressing his fingers to it, of dragging the blood across Javert's cheek, of grasping his chin and sliding his fingers into--

“No!” he gasped, and trembled when the eyes of the insurgents came to rest on him. 

It was very quiet in the room. He felt the weight of their gaze on him, the heat of it that made his skin tingle, like an animal that had scented the hunter. What could be done?

He had heard of such things. So had these insurgents. 

“Citizen, if you are no spy, our business is not with you,” Enjolras said. Valjean looked at the flush of those marble cheeks, the heavy heat in his eyes with the promise of sharp steel behind it.

“If I am not mistaken, you know as well as we all do what has been done to us. A peculiar poison this is. Of course, we cannot ask for honor from men who send spies to commit murder in our name. Perhaps this should have been anticipated.”

“What is there to be done?” another of the insurgents demanded. “A poison; certainly there is a cure for it. Joly, come tell us, what must be done? How do we exorcise this curse? Must you let blood?”

“A good leeching!” another joined in, and Valjean let their voices wash over him, a chorus of demands and suggestions although their timbre gave away the fright beneath – and deeper still, there was an electric tension that ran through the room, a current that made his heart shudder in his chest with every breath.

He was in grave danger. All his senses told him to flee. He retained enough of his mind yet to know that he needed to leave, that this might be his last chance before men turned to wolves, and then--

His eyes came to rest on Javert again. The man did not look at him, but the rope bound him tightly. Valjean watched his chest rise and fall with fast, shallow breaths. Had Javert sense enough to be frightened, at last? Or was that...

Javert's head turned. Javert looked at him. Valjean could not breathe. There was anger in the eyes that looked at him. There was a desperate, humiliated fury, and Valjean thought suddenly that it was because of him – that Javert would still be laughing in disdain at his captors, but that it was Valjean's presence that made it unbearable.

Valjean was certain of it. In truth, it was Javert's presence in turn that made the same, sick humiliated fear churn in his stomach. Even now a small part of him told him to run, that he would not be stopped, not yet. If the wine's poison would soon turn passion to violence or degradation, he need not be here for it. Valjean thought they would let him go. He was certain of it.

“The spy.” 

Valjean could not laugh, even though he had known all along that it would come to this. Had he not known from the moment he saw Javert bound and disdainful? They called him spy. They were prepared to shoot him. 

“There are other options,” Valjean said. His throat was dry. He clenched his hands to remind himself that he was still in control of his own body.

“There are other options,” Enjolras agreed very calmly. Valjean studied him. Was it possible the man was not affected after all? But no, there it was – his mouth was narrow, and there were lines of tension around it, and the calmness of his mien was that of a man who had made a grave decision.

“But remember that even now, we are surrounded by the very men who sent this spy and this poison into our midst. There are options, but we have no time.”

Enjolras looked away from Valjean to let his gaze rest heavily on Javert, who refused to acknowledge him. Valjean found himself studying the straight line of the insurgent's back once more, thinking again of the bright gleam of a bayonet drawn before it was sullied with blood.

“One spy I condemned to death. I told all of you then that I had judged myself as well, and that I had condemned myself as I had condemned him.”

Javert's mouth opened for a silent little laugh, and Valjean felt something in his stomach tighten again at the gesture. 

“This man I must judge and condemn myself. I tell you now that I would take his place. That I know everyone of you would take his place – but that necessity bids us once more to consider the sacrifice we are about to make. This man has come among us to spy, to betray, well aware of the poison.”

“And he drank as well.” The man at the table in the corner raised his bottle for a salute. Javert ignored him. “He might even prefer it to a bullet.”

“It is all the same to me,” Javert muttered through clenched teeth, and Valjean wondered all of a sudden how much of Javert's fury was caused by the way that even now, his cock pressed lewdly against his trousers for them all to see, while his life and body was bartered away like chattel.

“You cannot,” Valjean found himself saying, breathless, as though Javert's eyes on him had somehow leeched all strength from his muscles. His tongue refused to follow his command; he had to swallow before he could form words. “You cannot; not that man. Not a prisoner.”

“I must,” Enjolras said. The look on his face was severe, although there was something almost like gentleness in his words. 

“I must, citizen. I cannot sacrifice any other. We need every hand that can hold a musket. And this poison demands a sacrifice. You must feel it in your blood as well. Your hair is white, and you have given your own uniform to save those you could. If you desire, you may leave. If you go through the Rue Mondetour, maybe you can yet make your escape.”

Valjean's heart was fluttering in his chest, every heartbeat aching, his throat so tight he feared he would not be able to breathe.

“I will not leave,” he said after a long moment, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the face of the young insurgent rather than Javert's prone form. 

“No. I will not abandon you here.”

“Thank you.” The muscles of Enjolras' face did not soften, although his eyes looked upon Valjean with a new, deep respect.

Valjean felt the fear tighten around his chest, his heart beating so quickly now that every thud brought an agony that drove all breath from his chest.

“I will not let you have him either.”

There was silence at his words, and he could feel the other insurgents raise their heads to stare at him.

“It is not a decision to be made on such a day. You all know it. Sacrifice innocence, but not justice.” Valjean's throat worked convulsively. He did not think. He could not think. If he allowed himself to think, he would not be able to--

“I offer myself in his stead.”

It was very bad now. His limbs were heavy, his mind sluggish; all he could feel was the pulsing of his heart, a drum that beat relentlessly to war – although this was a war he had not come prepared for.

He could feel Javert's eyes on him still. This was what showed him how far the poison had spread through his blood, for it made no difference now: a hidden part of his mind still felt shame, but blood ran thick and hot through his veins, pulsing at his brow and between his legs with an urgency he had not felt since those few, rare summers before Toulon had forever stripped all such urges from him. Waves of need washes over him, relentless like the tide, and he thought that the man was right: they would either yield to the fire or be devoured by it. 

And he could not let them quench the flames with Javert. No one deserved that – not even Javert. Valjean was old. He had come prepared to lay down his life to save the boy that Cosette loved. What difference did it make whether he gave himself up here, or to the muskets waiting outside?

“I am willing,” he said, his tongue strangely heavy in his mouth. The leader of the insurgents stared at him, and there was such determination his eyes that for a moment, Valjean wondered whether he had been spared after all.

But then the man clenched his jaw and rested a hand on Valjean's arm, as if he were the one making a sacrifice and not Valjean. The intensity of his gaze was still the same, but his eyes were dilated, his breathing came faster, and on those marble cheeks, a blush had risen.

No further questions were asked. It happened like in a dream – a nightmare, Valjean thought to himself, but it was not terror that made his body shake. He allowed himself to be undressed, trembling as he had not trembled since that one day so long ago when they had riveted the iron collar behind his head and stripped all humanity from him. Now, once more he was stripped, although the hands were gentle and nearly reverent, shaking with the unholy desire the drink had brought about.

Valjean did not know where to look. He raised his head, helpless and uncertain – and then he found himself captured by Javert's gaze, who was staring at him from eyes that were dark and hot and burning with something he would have called rage in any other man.

But what need had Javert for rage, he thought dimly even as he allowed them to pull down his trousers, his face hot with shame as Javert's eyes watched that, too. What right did Javert have to feel rage when it was Valjean making the sacrifice instead of Javert?

There was no bed or mattress. They made him bend over a table. He turned his head, squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would undo what was about to happen – but then someone stepped behind him, and something slick touched him. His eyes flew open as a tremor of fear and shame ran through his body once more. As he turned his head in a quiet, instinctive plea for help, even though his tormented body was shivering with lust, he found that Javert was still watching him, and this time he could not look away – not even when his body was breached by a slick finger that forced a groan of embarrassment from him.

Javert's eyes glittered beneath his dark hair. Valjean could not say what was worse: the shame of Javert watching this, or the humiliation of that touch inside him. 

He wished he could look away. His face was too hot, his mouth dry, but he could not move, could not even make himself close his eyes, and the desire that made his limbs tremble could not be denied. Had he been on his own, he thought that he might have made it out. He might even have succeeded in taking Javert and the boy with him, and fought the demands of his body for long enough to see them to safety.

But even though these men did not have his strength, Valjean knew that there was no way he could make them abandon the barricade, or reason with them to release their prisoner. The only course of action open to them was to give into the poison-induced desire to cleanse their blood.

A gasp escaped him when the hand retreated, and Javert's lips paled. _Let him look away_ , Valjean prayed, but this torment as well he would not be spared, even though the shame of it burned worse than the glowing iron he had once pressed to his own arm.

Enjolras was smooth and hard as he pressed inside. Valjean gasped in surprise despite himself, the image of Javert's disdainful face growing blurry for a moment as the sensation, more than the discomfort, made his eyes tear up. Enjolras' legs were tense, hard muscle against his thigh. He made no sound, although Valjean could hear him breathe, and then, at last, he moved. A terrible pleasure shot through Valjean, fire spreading from the base of his spine until he could hear it escape from his lips in a surprised moan.

He blinked away the tears. His fingers curled into a fist against the rough surface of the table. He panted for air as Enjolras pulled out, only to thrust right back in, filling him in a way that should have been humiliating but instead made him arch with how good it felt. Nothing had ever felt so good. Nothing – not even that first step as a free man. Not even the Bishop's kind touch.

Javert was staring at him, his cheeks flushed, his eyes grim. His brow was furrowed, but Valjean almost thought that he heard him release a moan as well as Enjolras slid right back into him and made him tense and bite his lips.

“I am not hurting you?” Enjolras asked, courteous although his voice was rough with the same breathless need that made Valjean shiver and ache to be used.

_It is to spare Javert,_ he told himself again. _It is a sacrifice._ And still his body tensed every time Enjolras filled him. There had been an ache at first, but then even the ache of the stretch had turned into a terrible delight, and now he panted and watched helplessly how a shudder ran through Javert at every sound he made.

Desperately, Valjean wished that he could tell him, _I am doing this for you,_ and _Please do not watch_ – but what right had he to demand Javert look away when he had offered himself up to this of his own free will?

It should not feel so good, he thought again, feeling his own helplessness with each slide of the man's hard flesh inside him. All he could hear was his own labored breathing. The pressure inside him was impossible, the ache of it that was _good_ , almost enough to swallow the shame at the way his lips would part and release soft, involuntary moans every time Enjolras forced his body to tense with pleasure when fire spread through him.

He felt like a parchment burning up. It was eating him alive, would burn all of him; there would be nothing left but emptiness and ashes and still the terrible pleasure of it was too much to resist. He was helpless; everyone was watching, seeing him exposed, and the shame of it was nearly unbearable – but so was the heat that spread through his body at the way he was filled and stretched. He felt the wetness of tears on his cheeks as he shuddered there on the desk, his eyes wide and unseeing as his body at last gave in to the pull of pleasure. Even as he spent himself he could not take his eyes from Javert, knowing himself watched in turn, unbearably ashamed or aroused – he could no longer tell the sensation apart.

When Enjolras finished, he made no sound, although Valjean could hear the way his breathing changed, and his thrusts gained in force and urgency. Valjean exhaled heavily, unable to tear his eyes from Javert's face even at the strange sensation of heat filling him and trickling down his thighs. Then Enjolras stepped back, and Valjean had not even stopped shivering yet at the nearly unbearable exposure when another stepped between his legs, and a cock nudged at him, eager and hard so that he moaned in surprised pleasure when it slide inside him and reawoke the need in him.

The man groaned. Valjean tried to force himself to turn his head – would it not be worse to bear this while he did not even know who made use of him in such a way? And yet, he could not make himself move, could only keep his eyes on Javert, stunned and almost afraid to see that the derision on Javert's face was gone and had been replaced by despair.

“Yes,” the man moaned while his prick slid deep inside, so that Valjean's hips rose with a gasp, his body already eager for more despite Javert's eyes on him. It was nearly impossible to think through the haze of pleasure, but Valjean thought that he recognized the voice and those large, generous hands that had made cartridges earlier, and which now grasped at his thighs.

No, this was not Enjolras; this man groaned every time he thrust into him and used his hands to make him spread his thighs even further, rubbing and squeezing appreciatively even as Valjean tightened around him with another surprised moan forced from his throat.

“Yes, like that. You feel so good, monsieur!” The insurgent's touch made Valjean shiver, still watching Javert who stared at him, eyes hot with rage or--

Valjean arched when the boys prick rubbed against him inside and forced another choked sound of pleasure from him. Not desire. Certainly not desire. Not Javert; not for him. Javert was suffering just as much as they were, this meant nothing...

He almost sobbed when another climax was forced from him. His open mouth panted hot air against the table while his eyes rested with exhausted disbelief on Javert, who had at last trembled and arched and tried to fight off his bonds, only to collapse back onto the table after all, a damp stain spreading slowly between his legs.

Something in Valjean's stomach shifted at the sight. _No,_ Valjean thought, but now Javert's eyes were closed, and Valjean forced himself to think of how Javert was helpless, a victim of the poisoned wine just as much as they were. Javert could not help it. It meant nothing; it was but a physical reaction; he should not judge him--

There was another: heated skin moving against his bare thighs, and smaller hands that touched his back in reassurance, although Valjean was too far gone to feel fear. All he could feel was a dull excitement – as though all pleasure had been wrung from his body, but his nerves were still strung taut, trembling nervously in anticipation of an ecstasy he was not certain he was even capable of.

He could feel that eager, hard cock pressed to his thigh, and a voice that was deep and breathless murmur something as if to comfort him. He did not understand the words. All he could concentrate on was the trickle of seed that seeped from his sore body, wet and hot against his thighs – and how copious would it be once they were done with him?

The thought made him moan despite his exhaustion, and then the man slid inside, slowly and easily, aided by the warm spend that already filled him. 

Another stepped in front of him. He made no demand, but when he opened his trousers, Valjean did not have to be told – the prick that sprung free was large and hard and flushed with blood, already seeping wetness just from--

Valjean swallowed. Just from watching what they did to him, his mind supplied, and he did not dare to look up at the insurgent's face as he slowly, hesitantly opened his mouth and licked at the slick tip, shuddering with sudden nervousness at the taste, even though it sent another wave of fire rushing up his spine.

His mouth watered with the alien need that refused to release its hold on him. His tongue felt heavy and strange in his mouth, and without being told to he sucked the prick into his mouth, licking at it awkwardly as best as he could, grateful now that he could no longer see Javert. A hand curved around his cheek and held him in place. It stroked him in encouragement, and Valjean moaned as the other insurgent behind him finished with a hard thrust, filling him with more warmth that seeped out of him when the man pulled back.

Then another took his place without a word. Another muffled moan escaped from Valjean's throat as his body clenched around the prick that opened and filled him. It was nearly too much to bear – his body was so sensitive, and still he arched up instinctively to offer himself up for more of it. The heat in his blood had not diminished and made him _need_. He was almost grateful now that they had decided to make use of his mouth as well, because he was still hard and chafing against the desk with every thrust, and the thought of Javert hearing his moans was unbearable.

His body still ached dully for _something_. His nerves were aflame with the need for release, but even under the onslaught of pleasure he remembered how empty that release had been: a short moment of ecstasy that had made him shudder and empty himself of this poisonous fire, and then more of the raw need had flooded in to pulse within him.

The wanting did not stop. He could only tremble and allow himself to be spread and used as these men groaned their need against him. Perhaps he should be grateful for how careful they were: their touches were admiring, and even now one hand stroked his thigh in admiration while another, different pair of hands buried itself in his hair as the prick in his mouth jerked and spilled a thick, salty release on his tongue. Valjean breathed shallowly around it, panic-struck for a moment at the alien taste – but even so something made him moan and swallow with an eagerness he had never known while the fingers trembled and tensed in his hair.

There was another hand in his hair. As one man stepped back, another took the place by his mouth, just as another took the place behind him. Valjean blinked desperately, and the hand he raised to wipe at the sticky fluids on his chin was trembling. For a moment, shame twisted again within him, but the fire grew more fierce until he though with horror that any moment now, he would beg for it – beg even for that degradation, to be used by men whose name he did not know, and what sacrifice was this when he _wanted_ it, when--

More pressure against his slick hole that stretched easily for the slow slide inside, forcing an overwhelmed sound from Valjean. Then, another cock brushed teasingly against his lips, and Valjean opened his mouth without thought, all need now. As though they had heard his thoughts, they made him wait: Valjean had to watch as the man stroked himself until a bead of wetness began to seep from the tip. At the sight, a hungry, yearning sound escaped Valjean, this animal heat within him aching for the taste of it even though shame was still twisting in his stomach at the certitude that Javert would hear, that Javert would _see_...

Almost despite himself, his eyes slid towards where Javert was still bound. Shock ran through him like lightning when Javert's eyes met his, hot and dark and riveted on him, alight with a terrible fire. Valjean could not make himself look away, even though he was trembling when the crown of the cock was gently, insistently pushed to his lips once more.

Javert was still watching. Valjean groaned. The need in him burned, an agony as terrible as the shame. He made a nervous sound at first as he pressed his tongue to the wet tip – then an instinctive sound of pleasure at the bitter tang of lust on his tongue. It was that same relentless lust that was sparked within him once more and made him suck the head of this stranger’s prick into his mouth, pressing his tongue against it with a trembling contentment as the agony of need relented a little at the taste. Behind him, the man ran his hands up his thighs to lovingly stroke his buttocks until Valjean arched mindlessly into the touch, only to choke around the prick in his mouth when a finger rubbed against the sore muscle that stretched so readily around his cock - and all the while, Valjean looked at Javert, helpless as he had never been before. 

Javert did not look away. Javert kept watching while Valjean trembled from the shame of being so exposed, and still there was no choice but to do what his body demanded of him. It was a sacrifice, he told himself again in desperation even as he swallowed convulsively around the prick that stretched his lips. _It was a sacrifice_ – but deep within, he knew that Javert would be able to see his enjoyment.

It would not matter after this, he thought in his despair when at last those tender hands cupped his face and stroked his cheeks. His sight was becoming blurry from tears that threatened to escape at the way the hard prick rubbed over his tongue until it reached his throat, sliding back and forth again and again despite the gentleness of the hands that touched him.

Was Javert still watching? 

Again lightning crackled along his nerves. The heat of shame within him grew to such intensity that he thought it was too much, that even his body that had born everything could not bear such burning shame. 

Once this was over, once the poison had been drawn from their bodies, he would free Javert, Valjean thought, his eyes at last sliding shut when another of the insurgents stepped closer – and then there was another hand that stroked his hair. The fingers that touched him were gentle, even though he could smell the gun powder on them, and Valjean, who had never been touched in such a way before, could do nothing but tremble and try to bear the pleasure that rose and fell within him, again and again. 

There were so many hands on his skin. So many words of encouragement or praise or need. He wanted to beg for – for them to be silent, perhaps, he thought, even as he writhed beneath their hands. A thumb slipped into his mouth and he closed his lips around it, sucking eagerly. “It's so good. You feel so good,” another voice groaned, and then the fingers spread open his mouth and he closed his lips eagerly around slick, salty skin.

“Yes, please, monsieur – suck me, like that!”

He swallowed convulsively, and another hand slid up his trembling thigh. 

“He's so good. Keep his mouth full, Joly. Do not make him beg for it. Give him what he needs.”

Heat washed through him at the thought that Javert could hear, and that it was all true – Javert could _see_ just how true it was--

Hands spread his thighs wider as another took the place behind him. A muffled groan escaped Valjean when he was filled once more. The stretch of it ached despite the slickness of the spend that ran down his thighs – this one was large, and a part of Valjean was frightened by the size of what was pressed to his thigh. And yet, once more, his body was eager for it. The fire in his veins made him arch his back with desperate ecstasy as his hole stretched willingly around the huge prick that kept spreading him open. Everything was torment; everything was unbearable pleasure... He tensed all over as the long, sweet slide of it inside him put pressure _there_ again, and then his body was overcome by one final climax that wrecked him with dry shudders as his aching balls contracted, emptied so completely that he had nothing left to spill.

The man inside him took his time. His hands were careful, too, although they gripped with determined strength. Valjean would not have resisted - could not, not now - but was grateful for the way he was held down gently, his tired thighs spread wide. Then his hips were pulled even higher, until he was perfectly positioned for the man to use him hard and fast. His prick was so large that every time he pushed into him to the root, Valjean's chest constricted and he could not breathe from the overwhelming sensation of being filled so completely. The insurgent was strong, and rougher than any of the others had been, but Valjean had given himself up, surrendered his body, and despite his exhaustion, there was still a deep satisfaction at the hot pressure within him. 

He could not even think of Javert anymore. He could only weakly curl his fingers against the table, moaning every time he was stretched, exposed, taken so intimately. Words spilled from his lips, and he could not even understand their meaning himself as he trembled with exhaustion and the overwhelmed disbelief that such a thing was possible. 

Could this be real? Could such a thing be so good? How could it be that his body had craved this, that he, who had not known a kind touch since childhood, had now felt the touch of so many hungry hands on him? When the man inside him spilled himself at last, instinct made Valjean clench around the large prick inside him as the hot rush of wetness filled him, moaning in dazed exhaustion at the thought that it might be over. How could it be over? 

The hands that touched him were languid now. Slowly, they trailed over his come-smeared cheek, stroking his heaving flanks with tired appreciation. Everything ached. Valjean was so exhausted that he could have closed his eyes and fallen asleep right here on the table in a puddle of his own spend. 

Instead, he forced himself to get up. His legs trembled. His muscles nearly refused to carry him, but there was still the urgency of danger in him that before had been nearly buried by the avalanche of heat that had rushed through his body. Now that most of the poison had been purged, he could think again - although the desire was not yet wholly gone.

He swallowed, then had to look away from the insurgents. His mouth tasted of their spend. His lips were swollen and hot as he licked at them - and at the gesture, there was a soft groan.

When he turned, he saw that Javert was still watching him. Valjean's heart contracted painfully when he thought of what Javert must see: the smears of come over his cheeks, the strings of his own release spattered over his stomach, the copious amounts now trickling warm and relentless from his hole that still ached from the last man who had spilled himself inside him.

Valjean licked another smear from his lips, then nearly staggered when Javert made a helpless sound, his eyes dark and unfocused as he twisted in his bonds. Valjean could see the damp stain between his legs. Had Javert...?

No one had released him. But no one had touched him either. He was the enemy, and if not the perpetrator, then at least he was on the side of those who had come up with such a dishonorable ploy. If Javert suffered now, the insurgents would think it a torment well earned.

"Let me take him," he said and shivered at the way his voice cracked. It sounded rough, as though he had not used it in years - when the truth was that for the past hour, his throat had been used for an entirely different purpose. And Javert had watched all of it. Javert had watched as one after the other, these men had used him, had spread him and filled him and petted him with indulgence while he moaned and twisted beneath them, growing ever more eager for them.

Valjean felt faint from shame - and still, he thought, how much worse would such a thing have been for Javert? Javert had not spent nineteen long years inn prison. Javert had not learned to bend rather than break.

Javert would have broken, and even though Valjean knew that Javert's death would mean safety for him, he could not make himself wish for the death of the man. Not in such a way.

It did not matter that Javert had seen, he told himself. Chances were that Valjean would die at the barricade. But Javert would live... and remember Valjean like this. 

It made him swallow against the sickness that gathered in his stomach - but he had made his choice. And his choice had been to spare Javert. Now he had to accept the consequences. At least he would not see Javert again, and would not have to see those eyes turn knowing when they beheld him, would not have to see that cold, terrible mouth twist into disdain.

Valjean took a step towards Javert. Would Javert write down what he had witnessed? Valjean imagined that large hand gripping the pen, firmly jutting down exact notes of each and every defilement he had witnessed.

Ah, good God! To think that this was all that should remain known of Jean Valjean on this earth...

Javert's chest was heaving. His prick was straining between his legs, confined by the wet, cheap wool and the harsh hempen rope that had tightened from his long struggle. It had tightened around his neck as well, and Valjean ached with sudden compassion as he saw the red lines the rope had left on the skin.

"I paid your price. Now let him be mine," he said, and nodded towards Javert.

Javert was breathing shallowly. He could not look at Valjean. His eyes were closed; Valjean was not certain whether it was sweat or tears that glistened on his cheeks. His expression, in any case, was one of agony, and if the tell-tale spot between his legs meant that he had found release again even like this, it seemed to have done little good.

Valjean had to swallow as he imagined Javert straining against the rope, tears welling up in frustration and pain. He turned his face away from him for a moment and tried to straighten his shirt. There was a gun on a table, and he took hold of it.

No one protested. They were too exhausted, he thought - or maybe too shocked. But he had paid the price, and paid it in full, could still feel the price run warm and slick down his legs so that he flushed at the thought of Javert's eyes on him.

"You would not want his death. Not after making such a sacrifice for him." 

It was the leader of the insurgents who stepped into his way, and Valjean took a deep breath. He was still half-naked. He was exhausted and weak, and they were many. If they wanted to bind him alongside Javert now, he did not think he would be able to defend himself. Maybe they would both be lost.

"No," Valjean said truthfully, and forbade himself to look at Javert. He knew his face would only show disbelief. "But I earned his life. It is mine now. If I do not want to take it, then that is my right as well."

Enjolras raised his head. "You have saved us," he admitted. "You have sacrificed yourself. And yet, that man is a spy."

Valjean rubbed wearily at his brow, then flushed when there, too, he found wet smears of come. He could not bear it to have Javert look at him like this. But it would not be for much longer now, he told himself again.

"What information could he give away that would endanger you? He knows little. He knows that their plan did not work."

With a deep frown, Enjolras looked towards where Javert was still tied to the desk. "I do not like denying you. I would give him to you. He is of no use to us. But he could be of use to our enemy, and what then will you say if by your sacrifice, you buy our death after all?"

"At least," Valjean said, desperately casting around, "at least have mercy on him. He suffers as you suffered."

Enjolras' face was cold, his lips hard even as they formed a smile. "And should we have pity for one who spies for those who brought such a state about? He did this to himself." He paused, then turned and gave the men who remained a considering look.

"Very well. You were our salvation, monsieur. I will not deny you. It is true that he knows very little of use. Take him then. Do with him as you please. The man is yours."

Javert made a small sound. There was anguish in it, although it was softened by the noose that had tightened more and more around his neck as he had listened to the conversation between his captors. At the declaration, he had begun to writhe instinctively on the table to which he was tied. Valjean watched without a word how the hard prick that filled his damp trousers jerked against the fabric when Valjean cut through the rope that held Javert bound to the table.

He did not cut the martingale. He did not trust Javert that much; most importantly, he did not trust his own strength after the torment he himself had gone through. His fingers that held the knife still trembled, and so did his thighs. His shirt kept him barely decent; he shivered as Javert turned his head, hot breath ghosting across the inside of Valjean's wrist when he leaned over him to saw through rope.

Valjean gripped the martingale and pulled Javert out by it. His trousers still rested forgotten near the table; he had not been able to bear the thought of returning for it while the man watched. Between his legs, he felt trickles of warm come. Valjean wiped furtively at his mouth again. He could not look at Javert without flushing. 

It should not matter, for Javert had watched as he was used by countless men -- had watched even as they all finished inside him while Valjean begged for more. Javert's opinion of him was, perhaps for the first time in his life, completely truthful, and still Valjean shivered miserably and wished that his prick would not press against his shirt yet again with sudden eagerness.

Javert did not speak, and he was glad. He did not walk far. It embarrassed him to walk out here in nothing but his shirt, even though he had pulled Javert into a small back alley where they would be unobserved. 

"Well?" Javert gave him a contemptuous sneer as soon as Valjean pushed him against a wall. "Will you now take what you paid for?"

Valjean swallowed. Javert was still bound. He should cut the rope and release him...

Instead, he fell to his knees before him, and used the knife to cut away the buttons that held the damp trouser flap closed. Once it fell down, Javert's cock jutted out, clutched tightly by the coarse rope that had rubbed it a raw, angry red. The head was thick and purple, leaking beads of slickness, and Valjean had enough of the poison left in his blood, or so he told himself, that it was this curse that made him lean forward and press his tongue to the small slit, slowly swiping his tongue over it to lick up the ample fluid that seeped from Javert.

"I'm sorry," Valjean said hoarsely, and then he allowed Javert's prick to slide into his mouth. 

Javert made a sound, a hoarse, garbled curse, and his prick jerked in Valjean's mouth, thickening against his tongue until Valjean moaned around it with satisfaction. He had dropped the knife. Valjean's hand was busy between his own legs, for even though his balls still ached with a sore emptiness after the pleasure that had already been wrung from him, his cock hard hardened again at the taste of Javert in his mouth.

It would not matter, he told himself. One final time. It would not matter that this would be the last time Javert saw him, and that Valjean would be remembered like this.

And perhaps it would indeed be better to be remembered on his knees in this alley, rather than bent over the table with the insurgents circling him eagerly.

Javert filled his mouth just as they had – and yet, something was different now. 

The poison was almost gone from Valjean's blood. No longer did fever make his fingers tremble and his body writhe with need for a touch, any touch. Warmth still filled him, but it was a steady glow. He craved touch, felt elation at the satisfying heaviness of Javert on his tongue – but the despair was gone. Even though he was sore and exhausted, he still craved Javert, but with a gentler need.

He did not know what to call this. Comfort, he thought when he took Javert in so deep that the spongy head bumped against the back of his throat and he had to swallow around it convulsively. His lips were pressed into the wiry hair that surrounded the base of the shaft. His nose was filled by the scent of Javert: sweat, musk, arousal, and hints of gun powder. 

None of it should have been comforting, and yet it was. The men who had pleasured him until his body had writhed in overwhelmed agony had been strangers. Javert was no stranger. Perhaps it was simply that.

And if fate had forced their paths to cross in such a way once more, perhaps it was only fitting that it would end this way. After all, Valjean knew that he could buy neither compassion from Javert, nor mercy. Still, it seemed wrong to deny him this when Valjean had felt the agony of unfulfilled need himself, and when Javert had been bound cruelly, at first made to fear that he would take Valjean's position before his death, and then, that his death would come regardless.

It was a lot for a man to fear, Valjean thought, and swallowed around Javert again, greedy suddenly for this small connection, this reassurance that even the man who had hunted him for so long was human – that in this small way, he could make up for what had happened in the tap-room earlier.

Javert could not move much. Valjean could hear the sounds he made: his heavy breathing, the overwhelmed gasps every time Valjean swallowed around the head of his prick. Javert's hips jerked against him, desperate to thrust and sheathe himself deep in Valjean's throat even though Valjean held him pinned to the wall.

Valjean thought again of the way Javert had looked at him. His thighs were tacky with the warm spend that kept trickling from him, and he remembered the terrible ecstasy of being filled in such a way: his legs spread wide, the careful thrusts that pushed past a place inside him that had made fire rush through him until he thought that he would go up in flames. And then Valjean remembered Javert's eyes on him, and that unbearable intimacy of meeting his gaze as his body was invaded, the first prick that had pressed past the resistance of muscle and slid inside, and how Javert's eyes had watched the play of emotion on his face. Javert had seen him arch and spread his legs to ask for more. Javert had watched him beg to feel the man deeper. Valjean's body had reacted to the exposure and defilement with a wave of desire than had made him arch and tremble – and still Javert had watched.

Valjean had moaned with Javert's eyes on him. It had been nearly as intimate as feeling Javert inside him would have been. No, perhaps even more so. Even now as Valjean swallowed around his prick, it felt as though Javert had been in his mind instead. Javert had been able to read every thought on his face as Valjean was used and invaded and pleasured so ruthlessly that his muscles were still shaking from exhaustion. To have Javert watch and witness every tremor of pleasure, every moan – was that not worse?

This, in turn, did not truly feel like an apology. Valjean made a muffled, desperate sound around Javert's cock, aching with renewed heat for the thick fluid that would soon enough run hot down his throat. He should feel shame, he thought dimly. To want to know such a thing: the salty tang of Javert's release on his tongue while he knelt half-naked before him in the street, the seed of a multitude of strangers dripping down his exhausted thighs.

Instead, perhaps this was revenge. Javert had stolen that intimacy earlier as he had watched and watched. Now, it seemed to Valjean that he was simply taking it back. 

Valjean had been the one to drive off the poison, who had suffered as it was drawn from his body with every touch, with every moan and gasp that had been forced from him. Now, instead it was Javert who was overcome, whose hard cock twitched against his tongue while he made desperate sounds of need. 

Valjean swallowed around him once more, then drew back so that he could tease at the slit with his tongue until Javert gasped even as he arched. It tightened the martingale around him, but even the pain could not keep Javert from spilling himself, and Valjean could feel him shaking as his cock jerked on his tongue. Valjean's hands slid from Javert's thighs to cup his balls, his thumb stroking the tight sack until he was rewarded by a broken sob, and Javert's hips came forward in uncontrolled thrusts, as though he sought to bury himself even deeper down Valjean's throat. The choked groans that escaped Javert sounded nearly anguished, and Valjean swallowed again. Javert's prick stretched his lips wide, filled his throat so deeply that he could not breathe, and instead of pulling away he tried desperately to swallow him even deeper, even as Javert spilled the remaining spurts of his release down his throat.

Valjean's eyes were closed. His nose was buried in the dark, wiry curls, and somewhere above him, Javert gasped a long, drawn-out moan. A tremor ran through Valjean. He swallowed convulsively, again and again, working Javert with his throat to milk what remained from him, his fingers gently cradling the warm, taut balls. Dizzily, Valjean wondered what might have happened had he cut the rope. Would Javert's hands have come to rest in his hair? Would they hold him in place now as Javert's body was wrecked by the release after what must have been an hour of torment in the tap-room?

When at last he drew back in regret, Javert was still hard, and Valjean found he did not want him out of his mouth. Could he still blame the poison for this craving within him? It felt different now. Inside the tap-room, there had been nothing but but despair and helplessness at the need that had set his body on fire. This, as shameful as it was, was nearly comforting – the weight of Javert's prick on his tongue was there because he wanted it.

Valjean made a soft sound of contentment as he closed his lips around the swollen crown once more. Slowly, carefully, he lapped at it, licking it clean from all remaining traces of Javert's pleasure, and then at last he allowed Javert to slip from his mouth.

Valjean breathed deeply. It was done. He did not want to look up. As long as they did not acknowledge this, the moment would last – and when it ended, it would continue as it had before. After all, Valjean had always known to what end this day would lead.

Still, he had achieved this one thing: he had changed Javert's fate. It was not Javert who would die today. Maybe God would also grant Valjean the gift of the boy Marius. Valjean could ask for nothing more.

He swallowed again. He wanted to lean forward, to rest his head against Javert's thigh and bury his nose in his hair again. H wanted to breathe in desire and need until it washed over him and he could almost believe the lie that such a thing might be possible between them. 

His hands, that had always been so strong, suddenly felt empty and useless. There was nothing he could do to fix this. Valjean had done what he could – which was to give Javert ease from the poison, spare him the fate he himself had suffered, and now would set him free. What more could Javert ask?

When Valjean made himself look up, he could not shake the feeling that he had betrayed the man somehow. His hand trembled as he finally raised the knife and sawed at the martingale. Javert grimaced but made no sound, even though the coarse rope chafed against his still damp prick. It had left red lines on Javert's skin, and Valjean ached to lean forward and trace them with his tongue. 

No – that was still the poison. 

Valjean swallowed again, then made a helpless sound – his tongue felt thick and dry, and his throat was sore. He could taste nothing but the bitter tang of Javert's release in his mouth. His lips still tingled from the rough, wiry hair.

He cut through the rope that had held Javert's hands bound. When they shot forward to grip his neck, he was not surprised. He remained there on his knees, surrendering to the animal rage of Javert who panted above him, his face twisting from pleasure into a grimace of rage. 

“Why did you do it?” Javert demanded, his voice rough. His body shook under the force of his labored breathing. Valjean remained motionless in his grasp, unwilling to lift even a finger to defend himself, although the knife was still in his hand.

“Why?” Javert demanded again, choking on the words even as his fingers tightened and shook Valjean.

Valjean released a trembling breath. “Why did you have to watch?” His voice was brittle, but it did not break. “I... you watched. You saw.”

Javert's throat worked. At last he made a sound of disgust and released Valjean, then furiously rubbed his chafed wrists.

“You are letting me go?”

Valjean nodded.

“You will stay?”

When Valjean nodded again, Javert's lips twisted once more. “Very good, Jean Valjean. Try to hide, but--”

The words stuck in Javert's throat. His lips parted, but all that escaped was a stifled groan. Valjean, who was still on his knees, could not take his eyes from his face. He felt faint. He thought that if Javert took the knife from him now, there would be nothing he could do. 

But of course, that could not happen. Valjean would not let that happen, even though he felt so exhausted that he did not think he could stand. And still he would, if he had to, for that boy whom he hated and whom he would have to save.

“I will not hide,” he said, and thought about standing. He wanted to weep at the all-consuming tiredness that made his bones feel so hollow and brittle. Even the thought of moving hurt. “I live in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, number 7. You can find me there, if I live.”

“If you--”

Again Javert's throat worked as he seemed to choke on a sudden fit of rage. His hand shot out to grab Valjean's shirt, twisting it furiously to pull Valjean up by it, even though his hand trembled.

“No,” he said and snarled at him. “No!”

Valjean remained silent, too tired to tear himself free. It would be easy: he could see that Javert's limbs were trembling from weakness after the long captivity.

“No.” Javert forced the word out a final time from behind clenched teeth. “What if I make you come with me now. What then, Jean Valjean!”

Valjean rested his hand on where Javert held him in his grasp, and then gently pulled it away. Javert stared at him, furious – although Valjean could not say whether it was because Valjean defied him, or because Valjean would willingly walk back into danger.

“I see,” Javert said at last, his eyes wild and full of a strange loathing. “And you say you will return to your home afterwards? You will not run? You will not shoot me in the back even as I turn?”

Valjean released Javert's hand, and his own arms fell down once more to rest by his side. “If the boy is saved, it does not matter what you do with me,” Valjean said softly. “If he is not, if I die here... Well. Then it is over as well, Javert. Either should satisfy you.”

“There is only one thing that will satisfy me!” The words escaped Javert as another snarl, and he thrust his hands into Valjean's hair all of a sudden, gripping him so powerfully that Valjean froze. 

“But I cannot have it now. No, no, you have made certain of that! Do you even know what you have done?”

Abruptly, Valjean was released. Javert stepped away to neaten himself with trembling fingers, then ran them through his disheveled hair as he paced back and forth, muttering to himself. Valjean could not make out the words. At last he halted to stare at Valjean, grimacing after a moment so that Valjean flushed with a new rush of hot shame at how he had to look to Javert. 

“No, you do not. Very well then. The Rue de l'Homme-Armé, you say. I will be waiting for you, Jean Valjean! You will come?”

Again Valjean thought of the boy, and of the danger, and of how high the chance was that he would not see the coming day. How much easier would it be to fall here with a bullet in his chest than follow Javert back to the station house, offer his hands to him to have them clasped in iron and go back to the galleys for however many months might still remain to him?

“I will come,” Valjean said. _I will live_ , he did not say, but that was understood. He held Javert's gaze for a long moment. At last, it was Javert who was the first to look away, and to turn towards the small street that would lead him away from the barricade.

Valjean watched until Javert had walked past a corner. Then he exhaled and leaned against the wall for one weary moment, closing his eyes.

Javert taste was still on his tongue, thick and bitter and cloying. Already it seemed like a bad dream how they had made use him, how Javert had watched. But he could not forget Javert's eyes, the way they had watched everything – the way they had not let go of him.

Valjean was almost glad now. If he died, maybe it would give Javert some sort of closure to have watched him at his lowest. If he lived... if he lived, Javert himself would see him brought low again.

The thought of the galleys was still frightful, but even so, now he began to pray that God might grant him his life after all and allow him to return. He needed to return – if only to make certain that Javert would return as well.


End file.
